


yesterdays

by koedeza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, BAMF!Sam Winchester, Canon-Typical Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s05e04 The End, Gen, Hurt!Sam, Post-Apocalypse, Suicidal Thoughts, i swear a lot in my writing clearly, sick!Sam, strong use of language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 08:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17846147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koedeza/pseuds/koedeza
Summary: Sam drives an ugly green VW Rabbit across the USA, owns a single Hawaiian shirt and usually has a trail of cigarette smoke and questionable thoughts following him. There’s no more Sam and Dean, no more monsters to hunt, only a demonic Croatoan virus that’s set Hell on Earth. An AU of the episode The End that follows Sam in the months before he says yes to Lucifer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wooooooooooo boi.
> 
> This was definitely a doozy, and the longest fic I've written up to date. It, however, was made so much more enjoyable by my wonderful artist, Hila, or @glowingsamulet on tumblr. The tea to my coffee, and the most iconic hoe, she was a joy to work with and has become a good ass friend. Had such a good time working on this with her and even though we said we wouldn't do it again because school is a bitch, I'd 100% do it again with her. I'd also like to thank @quirkykayleeteam for partially betaing and @saintedsamwinchester for offering some good insight with her English Major skills, you guys are awesome! Also thank you to Hozier, for providing music to write this to.

 

Heat on his skin.   
  
The warmth of the sun on him like the sound of an alarm clock, only much more in his head. And no, he doesn’t dream much anymore but if he did-  
  
No.   
  
There are things Sam doesn’t do anymore, and imagining is one of them.   
  
He lays there for a few more minutes, opening his eyes every once in a while to catch the red-hot of the sunrise before closing them again. When the heat turns from pleasant to uncomfortable he sits up and stretches out long limbs, shaking the sleep and soreness out.  
  
His VW Rabbit creaks as he shifts inside the tiny trunk, climbing over to the backseats and opening the door to get out of the rapidly heating car. Sometimes he lets himself think of the time before it all ended and he remembers the Impala, the long beast that carried him cross- country. Though the Rabbit is an ugly green and too small and it breaks down at least once a week, it’s his mobile home and has saved his ass more times than he can count.   
  
Besides, even owning a car is beyond a blessing now. If it weren’t for Ty, the guy Sam traveled and stuck with in Detroit, he imagined he would never have gotten to Arizona. Probably wouldn’t have gotten outta Michigan.

Sam pulls his only shirt off the headrest with one hand and takes a cigarette out of a smushed cardboard box with the other, jamming it in between his teeth. He fishes for a lighter in the pocket of his jeans and lights his cigarette, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt.  
  
With the Hawaiian pattern on it, Sam knows what Dean would say. Some tourist crap is what he’d call it, but there is no Dean and there are no more tourists. It’s something he’d never be caught dead wearing before, but now he couldn’t give a shit. And maybe he’s allowed to like the only shirt he owns.  
  
When he ducks back into the car, in between the box of cigarettes and a pile of semi-burned rope he catches the glint of a gun.   
  
Before he can even think about it he has his fingers wrapped around the cool metal and has it pressed against his temple. Irrational, he knows. Next, he guides it to his mouth, takes the safety off and replaces it with his cigarette. Bites down on the metal of the Glock like a dog on a chew toy.  
  
He’s died before. He can do it again.   
  
It’s easy to forget the number of times he’s caught himself since the beginning: A straight razor with the slightest pressure on his neck, the rope in his backseat tied tight and sturdy, his feet dangling off the edge of the canyon just last night. It’s ridiculous, really.  
  
He’s died before. He can do it again.   
  
Except he most likely won’t stay dead, and when he opens his eyes again the inside of the car will be splattered with brains and blood. Sam’s not certain, but he’s good at inferring. Someone just doesn’t want him dead, not yet, so the safety goes back on, the cigarette back between his lips and the gun gets thrown under the all of Sam’s crap.  
  
He shuts the door and leans against the hot metal of the car, not even bothering to button up his shirt, knowing all too well the Arizona weather will only result in climbing temperatures until nightfall. He sighs and shakes his head, staring out into the sunrise and tapping his cigarette out. Each inhale burns his lungs but he’s not kicking the addiction now, not when he has so little time left. Ever since he started, he’s had a hard time deciding whether he loves it or hates it.   
  
He finds he can never really decide, and after all, it’s the end of the world. Maybe it’ll kill him before September rolls around. Ever since the outbreak, he hasn’t been entirely sure of what month it is, and it hasn’t mattered, but if the treacherous sun is anything to go by, he’d guess around July or August.   
  
His stomach rumbles and he lifts his shirt up to feel at his abdomen, grimacing when he sees the way his bones stick out. He needs food. The last few months when he was up in Detroit had been solely on rationed meals and cigarettes to stave off the hunger, but now that he made it down south he might be able to find more homes that haven’t been completely looted. The almost 30-hour drive from Detroit down to the Grand Canyon went by without a wink of sleep or a crumb of food and only water and piss breaks to keep him awake. By the time he made it to the Canyons, he parked on an overlook and slept for 20 hours straight.  
  
Now he regrets not being awake, not being able to see the Grand Canyon in all its glory. The sunrise is so gorgeous he contemplates staying on this overlook forever, waiting it all out and staring at the deep red gorges before him, but-  
  
He knows he can’t. He knows he can’t stay here for however long he has left, so instead, he turns and gets in the car, driving away before he can look back. 

  
  
American air got musty after a few months, the Croats taking over most of the country, leaving destruction and disorder to create a new home for themselves. Sam’s not sure about the rest of the world but he can guess it’s about the same. Society left in shambles and the scraps tossed out for those who survived. It’s what he’s used to though, fighting for his life, killing for love. Besides his new smoking habit and a few new scars, nothing’s too different. Yeah, the world seems smaller and he drives a Volkswagen now but things remain the same.  
  
Except when he thinks about Dean. That’s like a punch to the gut.  
  
The road ahead is cracked and curved and as his car jitters on he occasionally sees a few people ambling down the side of the road, weary faces and puzzled eyes. It’s been a year since the virus got out but Sam thinks for some people it’s never going to fully sink in. There are times even he forgets what’s happened, eyes widening when he sees a Croat who’s strayed from a hoard, skin blanching at the thought of being so alone, jaw clenching at the done deal.  
  
Today’s a clear day, the sky open and blue above, and with no AC Sam already feels his shirt sticking to his back with sweat. He takes a quick glance at the map in his lap then turns his head and looks at the back seat. Gear and supplies lay piled together, and in his head, he tries to take stock of what he has and what he needs.   
  
Batteries, more gas, another shirt, canned food, and a few first aid supplies.   
  
He drives until he’s off what used to be interstate and in what used to be a town. Tumbleweeds blow in the wind and hit his windshield and he wonders if he’s the only person in Arizona with a car. Probably. As he rolls through the town he sees a few stores, all abandoned and most likely looted of everything but it doesn’t hurt to look.   
  
He leaves the Rabbit hidden where he can wedge it in a collapsing home, then covers the visible green with trash and rotting wood. He has a canvas pack on his back and a little bit of America’s “Horse with No Name” stuck in his head, and he figures its a good a day as any to go ravaging for all the shit that got left behind in the end. No Croats that he can see either, which means more ammo that he can save for hunting food.   
  
Sam reaches one of the places he saw coming into town, an old Costco from the looks of it, but the faded red lettering only has the letters s and c. Senescent and Crumbled is more like it. As he walks across the vast parking lot, a rustle in the wind interrupts the warmth of the day, cuts through like a knife. And a hunch, dark and bold and sure, hits him in the back of the head and makes him walk a little faster. He raises his shoe and stubs out cigarette #3 of the day, jamming it back in his pocket for later. Something’s weird.   
  
Croats, more than likely.  
  
Since the end, he’s met a wide variety of people, gotten to know some well, but no one’s ever felt like he does around them. Maybe it’s the demon in them, maybe it’s the demon in him, but he feels their presence, hears them chatter like a constant click-clicking. At the beginning of the end, when there were millions and millions spread all over the country it felt like he was having visions all over again, the constant noise and rattle in his head giving him migraines like a kick in the head.  
  
Now a lot of them lie dead, their bodies burned and Sam has learned to ignore those who are left, much like the constant nagging about September in his head.   
  
As Sam pushes past the fallen metal doors he hears the clicking, ears more alert than ever before. A hand reaches into the waistband of his jeans and slides the Glock out, holding it at the ready. He shifts through the shadows of the dark warehouse and weaves through empty boxes and turned over shelves, eyeing the huge metal racks that almost touch the ceiling. The Croats generally aren’t smart enough to do much more than move around and attack, but every once in a while there’ll be one who knows what it’s doing and can get the rest of the hoard to follow. 

Late summer in Detroit, a few months after the outbreak, Sam had climbed up to the roof of a building with Ty. They’d wanted to scout out potential Croat hide-outs, maybe see if there were any bands of people who were traveling around seeking shelter.

“The Croatoan virus is smart.” Ty examined a carved knife handle and threw it back to Sam who caught it in mid-air.

“Yeah?” Sam let the knife glide through the air and plant itself into the low wall. “How smart?”

“Think about it. You ever see a slow Croat? Ever wonder why there are so many bodies littering the country? At the rate people get bitten there should be hundreds of millions more, there isn’t-”

“None of the dead bodies have Croat-killing wounds. No bullets, no slashes.” Sam bit the side of his thumb and peered over at Ty.

He thought about it, about how he never saw a Croat that wasn’t keeping up with the group, or how most of the dead bodies had no signs of a classic Croat killing. It just seemed like either Croats that had dropped dead, or people who hadn’t made it during the turbulent months following the outbreak. Logically, it made no sense.

“It weeds out the weak.” Sam had whispered.

“Mmhm.” Ty just kept plucking at the strings of his guitar, staring past the roof and out into the streets. He wasn’t interested in learning to throw knives. He lived in the heart of Detroit and knew how to use a gun. Sam had asked once if he planned to use his brains and his rickety guitar to survive the coming shitstorm. The deeper into the crisis they were, the more Sam felt his temper shortening. He hadn’t known Ty for more than a month, but he cared, didn’t want to see him get bitten like everyone else. Later he’d learn that was his mistake.

“If your an old lady, you’ll still get bit. You’ll just die a lot sooner.” Ty said, then started playing a somber sounding tune, letting mumbled words carry across the darkening sky. The same melancholy song he always sang.

_“And so I came to the fork in the road_

_The one where they buried his bones_

_And oh, I prayed to God to give him peace_

_That he could find his way back home_

_Wouldn’t want to spend eternity alone”_

It was the last time he’d play that stupid guitar.

Sam pushes the memory to the back of his head and continues treading silently, eyes narrowing as it gets darker and darker the further in he goes. He’s almost near the back when the clicking he’s been hearing in the air turns into a full-on cacophony, and a human scream reaches his ears. Then, one of the metal racks comes crashing down, tearing a garage door on its way down, letting in enough sun to illuminate the scene. 

Sam sees it almost as soon as he hears it.  
  
Hundreds of Croats swarming over shelves and broken lights and climbing on racks, knocking everything down. It’s like a wave, rocking back and forth between two walls, and in the middle, running towards the entrance is a boy. He’s hurtling forwards, but Sam can see that if he doesn’t help the kid doesn’t stand chance, so he clambers over the debris on the ground and punches through the mass of Croats, ignoring their clawing and biting and tearing as they try to tug him to the ground. He finally gets close enough to grab on to the boy’s bicep, circling an arm around it just as he feels teeth sink into his ribs and skin being ripped off.   
  
“Holy fuck,” He hisses and pulls the Glock forward, shooting the Croat right in the head, then kicks it off of him. He knows better than anyone that the bite is going to get ugly. Before the boy can get engulfed by the rest, Sam pulls hard, flinging them both out onto empty concrete. They roll for a few seconds, then Sam’s yanking the boy back up, tugging on him to follow as Sam runs out of the warehouse.  
  
“Come on, I have a car!” Sam shouts as he’s skidding down the street, his side burning from the Croat bite.  
  
The Rabbit is hidden a street or two down from the store, and Sam only glances back once or twice to see if the boy is following before seeing the hoard following them. Once they get there Sam motions for the kid to help uncover the car and then they clamber in, shutting the door and driving out.  
  
Sam takes as many backroads as possible on the way out of town and slides into the interstate faster than the little car is able to handle, but the Rabbit doesn’t disappoint.

  
  
-x-

 

“What’s your name?” Sam asks when they’re well out of Arizona, keeping his eyes on the passing road.  
  
“Me?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Ian.” The boy talks nervously and he fidgets a lot, but Sam figures it’s not that big of a deal, only normal after everything that’s happened. He looks about fourteen or fifteen.   
  
“Where do you live Ian?” Sam’s trying to be as nonchalant as possible but the kid is making him a little uncomfortable, how his eyes keep bugging out and he keeps biting his lips. Classic anxious behavior, Sam would know, but the boy seems to be worried about something.  
  
“I used to live in Salt Lake City. I trekked across the state border to find some more food for my sisters and my mom,” Ian picks at his fingernails.  
  
Sam frowns. Food must be much scarcer than he thought.   
  
“I can’t take you all the way to Salt Lake City because I have somewhere to be, and I’d be wasting my gas, but I can take you to the border, sound good?”   
  
“Yeah,” Ian mumbles.  
  
Sam doesn’t expect much, but he thinks maybe a thank you would be nice.  
  
His stomach rumbles again.

The drive is quiet until Sam lights up the cigarette in his pocket, rolls down the glass and puffs out, letting his arm hang out the window.

“How’d you get cigarettes?” Ian whispers in awe, reeling at what’s left over from the old world.

Sam bites his lip and considers the question. He doesn’t want the kid getting any ideas about the things Sam carries around in his car. Ironically enough, he doesn’t have half as many weapons as he did before the Croat outbreak, with all of them stowed away in the back of the Impala. Even if he did, the threat of seeming like a mass-murderer doesn’t faze him, not anymore.

“Just got them from an old friend.” He sighs, memories burning through his head. His tone of voice is low, eyes cast out on the road, and it carries over as an indication to Ian that he shouldn’t ask about it anymore.

It only gets Sam thinking about Ty.

“Where are you gonna look for food when you get back?” Sam asks after a few minutes, breaking the tense silence. He still can put his finger on it, but the boy looks even more uncomfortable than before, eyes shifting around every few seconds, shirt wet at the pits.

“I-I dunno. Some traders had passed through the area, and told us how Arizona was the least populated state they’d seen since the outbreak.” When Ian says this, a drop of sweat rolls down his forehead. Sam pretends not to notice. “I was hoping since there wouldn’t be as many people, there’d be more food.”

 _Dumb_ , Sam thinks. Really, really dumb. He shakes his head gently. “Look, they were right, I haven’t seen a lot of people but,”

“But what? I need to take care of my family.”

“Just because there’s not a lot of people doesn’t mean-” Sam finds the words harder to say than they should be, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “They’re dead. They’re dead because the heat helped spread around the virus, and before they died they took everything. If you’re looking for food it’ll be in the homes.”

Ian blinks.

“I just needed first-aid stuff and some clothes, that’s why I was looking through the stores.” Sam finishes, veering off the road once they reach the faded sign of the Utah state line. He parks the car and sits for a few seconds, taking a drag from his cigarette. This is where the kid has to step off, walk the rest of the way back home. Sam feels shitty, just leaving him here on the road, the sun beating down like a thousand drums. He has somewhere to be though, and he’s in kind of a time crunch.

“You gotta go Ian.”

A few seconds later, and Ian still hasn’t moved. In fact, he looks almost green in the face, eyes bulging.

“Ian…”

The attack comes out of nowhere.

Ian has his hands on the Glock that was sitting in the middle compartment, fingers scrabbling to fit where the trigger is, eyes wild and terrified. Sam moves as fast he can, trying to sling an arm around his neck and lock him in a choke-hold, but Ian brings a leg up and kicks his chest with brute force, knocking him back into the door. Somehow, the window doesn’t shatter and while Sam tries to shake the dizziness from his head Ian’s throwing open the door and scrambling out, gun aimed shakily at Sam.

A shot rings out.

“Fuck! Ian, what the fuck!” Sam yells, arms and legs tangled up in front of him as if they’ll protect him at all. He has no idea where the bullet landed, can barely see in the position he’s in and doesn’t know if the boy is still aiming at him.

“What the _fuck_ was that for?” Sam shouts again, even more confused than before. It all explains the shaky, crazed behavior, but what the hell is this kid trying to pull?

“You got bit!” Ian yelps, gun still pointed at Sam.

“Yeah, and what in the name of God is your problem?”

“ _My_ problem?”

“Fuck.” Sam hisses and moves his hand a fraction of an inch, rotating to open the car door. He tumbles out and lands on hot concrete, a shot ringing out again as he hits the ground. He hears a bullet whiz above him.

“You tried to shoot me!” Sam yells from the protection of the Rabbit, his nose picking up the scent of burning leather. He catches his cigarette lying on the seat, probably knocked from his mouth when Ian kicked him back. He swipes a hand forward and grabs it, hissing when it burns at his palm and falls to the concrete.

His only option is to risk peeking at Ian.

“So? You got bit, I saw you,” Ian’s hands shake, the gun in them rocking like a boat on the sea.

Oh.

He got bit.

Sam glances down at his side, surprised to see his shirt sticky with blood. Adrenaline, he guesses, like natural amnesia. Now that he’s thinking about it, it throbs, pounding in time with his heart.

He breathes in, then out, eyes half closed. He just needs to tell Ian what’s going on. A dry wind runs through him and through the car, fluttering the leaves on the ground. He takes a second to collect himself then pulls a lighter out of his pocket. He can’t let some fourteen-year-old know he’s jumpy, not right now. He’ll just explain himself, and it’ll be fine.

“Yeah, I did-” Sam struggles to get the lighter going, the wind killing the flame before it meets his cigarette. “Fuck,” He mutters under his breath and hunches over, trying to get the thing to light up.   
  
“Hey! I asked you a question!” The boy’s sounds terrified, and with good reason too, because Sam hasn’t turned yet, and that goes against everything he probably knows about Croats.  
  
“Yes, I got bit, ok look-” Sam finally gets his cigarette lit and snaps his lighter off, shoving it back in his pocket. He gets up slowly with his hands out in surrender and walks around the side of the car until he’s face to face with Ian. 

Sam doesn’t do _I’ll believe it when I see it_ , not with everything that’s happened in his life, but he can see how someone else would, especially right now. He lifts up his shirt and flashes a human-sized bite mark, red and inflamed right under his ribs. It’s deeper than he thought it’d be, a jagged looking circle that will definitely leave a scar. Ian jumps back but then takes a stumbling step forward, gun still pointed forward.

“Hey, lower the gun before you shoot me in the foot,” Sam says, prompting the boy nearer with a sideways nod of his head.   
  
Ian lowers it and steps forward, eyes widening as he lays his eyes on the wound. The bite, Sam knows from experience, looks like a regular wound, not the purple-blue rot of a Croatoan bite.   
  
“How is this possible? What even…” Ian looks at it in awe, hovering a finger over the bite before bringing his hand back down.  
  
“I’m immune.” Sam brings his shirt back down, pulling it taut so it doesn’t stick to his skin, and takes a drag of his cigarette. Ian looks completely confused.  
  
“Yeah, someone’s saving me for something.” Sam puts a hand out, gesturing toward the Glock in Ian’s hand. He passes it back, and Sam pretends not to notice the hesitation in his movement. It lands solidly in his palm and Sam sticks it back in his waistband, ignoring how it rubs against the bite. 

“Hey Ian, look-” Sam opens the back seat of the car and rummages under all his crap, pulling out a pistol that he knows is half-loaded. “There aren’t too many rounds in this, but…”

Ian still eyes Sam with apprehension, wary of his movements, but accepts the gun when Sam hands it over.  “Thank you. You- You never told me your name.”

Sam’s lips quirk up at that.

“I think it’s better if you never find out. If anyone comes looking, you won’t have to lie.” He figures this will only confuse Ian even more, but he knows he’s never going to see the kid again. It’s sad, he thinks, that human connection is as scarce as a meal. When the dust settled, he thought their humanity would bring the survivors together. Fitting, that it’s what’s tearing them apart.

“Anyway, I gotta go, so uh, take care of your family. Keep them safe.” Sam awkwardly reaches over to pat Ian on the back then turns on his heel, back in the direction of the Rabbit. 

“Who?”    
  
“Huh?” He turns around when he hears Ian’s voice.  
  
“Who’s saving you?”  
  
“Oh.” Sam looks down at his scuffed shoes, the holes in his jeans, the marks on his skin, the way the smoke from his cigarette trails up into the air.  
  
“The Devil.” 


	2. Chapter 2

The drive back down south is even more exhausting than the drive in from Detroit.

An hour or two in and he pulls off the road, telling himself it’s just to fill the tank up with gas again. (The meter says it’s ¾ full, and if memory serves he filled it up at the overlook.)  Sam stumbles out of the Rabbit and leans against the door, knuckles going white as he grips the frame of the car. Fuck, he’s never been this hungry in his life. His stomach growls and threatens to cave in, and all he can do is clench his teeth and ride out the hunger pangs.

There’s no way in hell he’s making it to California today, probably hasn’t even crossed over to Nevada. The sweltering heat of the day burns at his skin, and he figures now’s a good time for him patch up the Croat bite on his side. With barely any first aid supplies left and only a gallon of water on him, he’d say he does a pretty good job on the wound. There’s nothing for him stitch or glue it up with, but he cleans it out and packs it with gauze, using the leftover water to rinse the blood out of his shirt. Halfway through he gets more tired than he should so he sits on the scorching black leather of the Rabbit, squinting as the sun shifts into his eyes.

Soundless and empty.

The desert stretches as far the eye can see, open space for miles, and as far as Sam can tell, he’s all alone. Not a squawk of birds or the rustle of tumbleweeds or the rattle of gravel on concrete as other cars drive past. For all he knows, it could just be him. There’s comfort in thinking your the last person in the world, comfort in the fact that out of all of creation, you’re what’s left. It’s also terrifying. As much as it scares and fascinates him, he knows it’s not true. He made a deal, and as long as the deal stands he knows he’ll never be the last person on planet earth. Maybe what he did in Detroit is saving the millions of lives that are left. Kill most of the world, and the one percent left is still more than sixty million people. Maybe what he did in Detroit makes him calculating and cold and logical. Maybe what he did in Detroit was an asshole move, but the risk is worth the reward.

And just maybe, it makes him the biggest fucking idiot on the planet.

He drinks the remaining water in the gallon, chugging it all in hopes that it’ll take away the stomach pain. Everything’s running out. First aid supplies, food, water, gas. If he thinks hard enough he’ll catch a little bit of hope remaining in the bottom of his heart, welling up like a tear ready to fall.

Sam wants to be wrong, but he thinks that the heat dried the tear out a long time ago.

 

-x-

 

Nevada.

A day and a half later and he’s trekking through outcrops of sandstone on the bank of Lake Mohave. His skin burns and his side throbs but he’s getting closer and closer to water. A whole lake of it. Sam clambers over rocks and dust, sliding down when he sees the sun glinting off of something. His eyes widen and he runs forward, stumbling and running down the sandstone, dropping his pack down in the dust.

When he slides into the lake, it’s the best relief he’s ever felt, the cool water soothing his skin. God. To think that this is how it would all end up. He turns on his back and propels himself with his arms, facing the sun.

Sam swims and lounges for a few more minutes then gets out, shaking his head like a wet dog. His clothes are sopping wet, but it’ll keep him cool when he takes the long walk back to the Rabbit. In his pack is the empty gallon of water and as much as he wants to take a long drink out of the lake right here and right now, he knows he can’t. The Apocalypse changed him, but it didn’t make him dumb. He’s in the middle of filling his gallon up when he hears shouting and loud conversation.

A familiar feeling creeps through his chest and into his head.

Everything seems to go still, except for his eyes as they shift from the water to where the noise is coming from. A few meters in front of him and his eyes barely catch what the jutting rocks cover. A small group of people, hooting and hollering, slapping each other on the back in congratulations. Sam’s eyebrows quirk up in confusion until he sees it. There’s four or five of them, and between each other, they all carry bodies, Sam can’t tell how many between the tangle of limbs.

Fuck.

He screws the cap on the gallon as fast as his slick hands will let him then scrambles to shove it in the canvas bag, eyes trained on the people the whole time. He doesn’t know if that’s what they are, just people, resorting to cannibalism because they can’t find anything to eat, or if they’re-

Eyes the color of obsidian flash in the sun.

“Hey, is that who I think it is?” One of them calls out, and before Sam has the chance to turn away and starts scrabbling back up the rock, he sees the gleam of pearl white teeth, the snarl of something close to animal. They’re demons, and they’ve come to kill.

“Whoever wrings his neck first gets to call up the boss!”

“Yeah, right! As if he’s gonna believe we found him,”

“Come on, little bastard’s running!”

Sam doesn’t dare look behind him as he stumbles back the way he came, sneakers not giving him any traction on the sandstone. The jug of water hits his back hard, but he can’t stop moving. He was fast before and could outrun most things with long legs that are both a blessing and a curse. Time has slowed him down, or it’s caught up to him, he can’t tell.

When he feels a hand wrap around his ankle, it’s clear that it no longer matters.

With the artificial strength only a demon has, Sam gets jerked down the rock, his chin and elbows and all the sharp points of his bones scraping and knocking against the rock. As his body tumbles down the edge of the outcropping, his vision fades in and out, his fingers barely registering that they need to latch onto the cracks in the stone unless he wants to fall and snap something. One of the demons is faster than his reflexes though, and before he can roll off the edge, they snatch at his wrist and grab at his shoulder, pulling his body close to theirs with ridiculous strength. Sam tries to shake the infinite stars from his eyes, head lolling forward.

Footsteps and lose rock thunder toward them. The demon grabs a handful of his hair and pulls his head back toward his body.

“He looks worse than I thought he would.” The guy who’s holding him notes from above.

“Yeah well,” Sam mumbles, eyes struggling to focus on the pack of demons. “It’s the fucking Apocalypse.” It comes out as a growl and he can’t tell if he’s trying to sound menacing or if he’s just that close to passing out. “How about you let me go, huh? I don’t think the Devil would be too happy with you banging up his vessel like this,”

Another demon, a girl about his age, moves in front of him and stands with hands on her hips, half-lidded eyes taunting. She leans close and her copper hair tumbles into Sam’s face. Her breath smells sweet like vanilla, but if Sam inhales too hard he gets a whiff of rotting corpses and spoiled milk.

“You remember the deal don’t you, pretty boy?” She hums.

“Yeah, and I’ve kept my end of it. What is it right now, August? You can’t touch me.” Sam hisses and tries to hold his head up, but his neck feels broken like it’s made out of shattered glass. Right now, he’s all talk, and until he composes himself he’s not gonna land any punches.

The demon squats in front of him and pinches his chin between her thumb and index finger, jerking his head up to expose his neck. His head gets pulled back even tighter by the one behind him.

“We wouldn’t be the first to hurt you.” She says matter-of-factly, eyeing his face and neck. “Clearly you’ve been a tad bit reckless.”

“Not reckless, no one’s hurt me.” Sam tries to meet her eyes but the sun glares in his face.

“Oh.” She looks surprised at first. “Oh. So you tried to end it then,” Her fingernails trace over the light line on his neck.

Suddenly he knows what game they’re playing at. “How about we settle at I was shaving and my hand slipped.” He lets his eyes dart around to each demon. Useless chatter will distract them, but not for long. There’s the girl in front of him, the guy holding him back, and three others. He can do it, he just needs time.

“Nihasa, come on, who cares how he got it,” One of the other demons says to her. Sam gathers that she seems to be their ring-leader or something of the sort. He eyes how casual the demons look and blinks hard, looking around for his canvas pack.  It’s behind the third demon, kicked off to the side.

“Shut up, Stolas. I don’t particularly care either, but-” Nihasa lets his chin drop and stands back up, dusting her black jeans off at the knees. “Use your brain, if you have one. If he’s tried to off himself and failed, then that means something’s holding him back. So,” She smiles, amused, at Sam and kicks up some dust with her boots. “What is it, Boy King?”

He grins coyly, “Maybe every time I’m about to do it, I decide I don’t want to die yet.”

He doesn’t even have time to gauge the demons reactions before Sam sweeps a leg back, knocking him over and off the rock. He sees black smoke rise into the sky and shudders, hoping that its vessel was already dead. Nihasa and Stolas move to block him, but he launches forward tackling them both to the hard ground. One of the other demons abandons his vessel, empty body crumpling to the ground.

“You prick!” Nihasa yells and tries to grab at Sam but he rolls over both her and Stolas, shoving his elbows back and hoping to catch either of them in the face. Scrambling to his feet and stumbling over to where his pack lies on the edge of a rock. He snatches at it, surprised that the gallon of water didn’t burst open, and fishes for Ruby’s knife. His palm wraps around the handle and he crawls onto his back, ignoring the throbbing all over his body.

Then three of them are up, walking towards him in a line. Nihasa looks especially pissed.

“Every demon knows about the deal, Sam! He told us not to kill you, but he never said anything about not hurting you!” Nihasa starts running and jumps at him like a mountain lion, pushing him back onto the rock. His back collides with the ground painfully and she flashes a row of perfect teeth, golden eyes glistening with a need to spill blood. Sam’s seen that look before, sometimes in his own eyes.

“That was not part of the deal!” Sam growls back, pressing his palms to her shoulders, trying to keep her hands from closing around his throat. He feels a sharp lump underneath him and realizes the knife must have fallen to the ground and him on top of it. Sam shifts a hand to her sternum and then arches his back and grabs for the knife. Nihasa cat-like grin disappears.  

“The demon-killing knife? This was Ruby’s, wasn’t it? I knew that bitch,” She breathes, anger obvious in her eyes. “Heard she was yours, that you two got a little wild together.”

Sam just stares at her, trying to block the memories of Ruby out from his head. She ruined everything for him. But even now… His eyes catch on Nihasa’s throat, on a false pulse he imagines thrums through her. If only he could just strike at her neck and let her blood run in rivulets, let it cascade into his mouth. Power. Raw and unbridled, coursing through his every vein. He’ll never forget how it felt to have so much control.

No.

If Sam is going to go, he’s going to have a purpose to the end. He’s going to hold up the damn deal and he doesn’t want the last weeks of it to end with him craving demon blood, the withdrawal turning him into a screaming, begging animal. He hated it, won’t let it happen again. Sam can kill the three demons, he just needs to get his second wind.

He shoves Nihasa to the side as hard as he can, and even though she remains saddled on top of him and her legs don’t so much as budge, her shoulder shifts. It’s enough for him to glance at the third demon who stands behind her, enough for him to throw an arm back and send the knife flying through the air and directly into its throat. There’s no time for it to react or to exit its vessel, so instead gold crackles of lighting rush through it and the broken body crumples to the ground.  

Nihasa whips her head to look back and then grins back at Sam. All of a sudden she rolls off of him, and a foot connects with his side and he can’t breathe, the pain blinding him.

“You’re just giving us more incentive to hurt you. The boss actually liked Drekavac.” Nihasa stands up, brushes herself off, not even sparing a second glance at the fallen demon.

“And what if we hurt big brother Dean?” Stolas grunts, landing another kick, and Sam recoils, trying to curl into himself to protect his ribs. He blinks for a few seconds and gasps, trying to register what the demon just said. No.

No no no no no no no no.

“Mm, not a bad idea, Stolas. Of course, we’d have to find him first, but there are scouts all over the country so that shouldn’t be too hard. What do you think about that, Sammy?” Nihasa sneers at him, bending down and reaching to pluck the knife out of Drekavac’s throat.

And there’s his second wind.

Sam grabs Stolas’ leg and pulls, sending him back to the ground, then scrambles back to his pack, grabbing the jug of water and chucking it at Nihasa as hard as he can. Miraculously, it works. It sails through the air and catches her on the head, knocking her down. The knife releases from her grasp and clatters next to her, in between Stolas and Sam.

Sam skids forward and lands on his knees, picking up the knife with one hand and shoving Stolas back with his other forearm.

“Get up! Get the fuck up!” Sam shouts, and when he decides Stolas is taking too long, he grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him up to his feet.

“You don’t scare me, Boy King. I’ve heard that you’re powerless now, you can’t do shit.” Stolas taunts, eyes going black as coal. “I’m going to gut you and leave you to rot until Lucifer finds you, and then I’m going to find Dean and split his skin from his bones.”

Sam’s breathing so hard he feels dizzy. If he could just summon up an ounce of power, prove this bastard wrong. Truth is, he’s never felt so useless in his life. It’s like something, whatever’s been ticking inside him for years has broken, snapped and crumbled into dust. He was never menacing. He was never the bone-breaker or the threatening one. Everything’s ending though, and he supposes it’s ok to wring a few necks before he goes.

“You make me break the deal, and he will kill you.” Sam hisses, gripping tighter onto Stolas’ shirt and leaning in closer to his ear. “Worse, he’ll make you feel pain in the pits of hell like you’ve never felt before. Is that really something you want, Stolas?”

As gentle as his hands will go, he presses the knife to Stolas’ face, digs into a cheekbone until he sees sparks of gold. “And when Lucifer comes calling, I’ll be the one wearing his face.”  
At this point, Sam’s not sure if he’s clinging to Stola’s shirt because he can barely stand up or if he’s just trying to scare him. Either way, it works, because as soon as Sam leans back, Stolas nods faintly. Then, he turns and runs back the direction they all came, skidding down the rock on his way down. He doesn’t even glance back at Nihasa.

Everything hurts.

Sam inhales raggedly and blinks twice, watching as Stolas runs through the rock. He only turns around when he hears mumbling and sees that Nihasa is standing again, eyes glancing around the canyon with agitation. Sam grips Ruby’s knife tight and prepares for another fight despite his body’s protests.

Except Nihasa does not move, or snicker, or sneer.

She glances around the rock woozily, half-lidded eyes wandering in confusion. Slim fingers flit up to her mouth, patting around her lips, shifting through her long rusty hair. Then her eyes settle on Sam who looks the same, if not worse than a hit and run victim. “Oh my god,” She mumbles slowly, then promptly passes out.

Sam only manages to catch her because he dives forward, his knees scraping painfully across the ground, jeans tearing, but he grabs her before her head slams against the rock. Jesus. He must have been paying attention to Stolas when Nihasa left her vessel. He sets her down gently and pants with exertion, looking up at the sky and then squeezing his eyes shut. Fucking demons. He checks her pulse and then falls back onto his legs when he feels it flutter under her skin. Fuck. The adrenaline is seeping from his limbs and his whole body feels like it's impossible to move.

He presses a hand up to his mouth before letting a sob push through him. The echoes across the water unnerve him.

Sam doesn’t even know why he’s crying. He can’t cry. He won’t let himself cry, not when things are the way they are. He's Ok. He’s fine. He raises his shirt to his face and wipes at his eyes, then coughs and stands up.

Nothing to fucking cry about.

Even though his limbs are burning and everything aches, he gets back up, picking up the knife and the jug of water, and throwing it all in his pack. The girl stays unconscious, even when Sam bends down and hauls her up across his shoulder. With every step, he feels worse, body closer and closer to giving out. It’s a hard trek back down the outcropping, even harder when he has to wrestle the girl into the back of the Rabbit. He finally plops down into the front seat, not even bothering to take care of the damage the demons inflicted. For a horrible second, Sam just wants it all to stop. He doesn’t want to move a muscle, doesn’t want to take another breath. Time, however, goes on. He sticks a cigarette between his teeth and takes a drag.

Nothing to fucking cry about.

 

-x-

 

Arm across his chest, Glock in hand, and safety off. Sam turns and leans into the door, ear pressed against the painted wood. His eyes amble up the peeling door frame and then back down to the golden door handle. It looks like no one’s touched this house since the outbreak. Two-story, red-brick colonial sitting in the middle of some town in Nevada. It’s unusual, to say the least, and he can see why no one’s gotten close. Still, there’s no way to know for sure if anyone, or anything, is inside the house, so he listens for a few seconds, breathing as quietly as possible, then slowly wraps a hand around the knob. It opens easily, the door barely creaking, and he steps inside, gun out and at the ready.

If it weren’t for the light streaming into the house from the windows, he wouldn’t be able to see anything. Not the perfectly set dinner table, or the pristine kitchen, or the tidy living room. Besides the fine layer of dust that’s settled down, everything looks new, like it’s straight out of a magazine. Whoever lived here didn’t even panic when evacuating, or they didn’t evacuate, or maybe they just never came home- Sam stops himself before he can ask too many questions or before he can start building up any sort of feeling or connection to a place where he doesn’t belong. He remains cautious, treading lightly and moving slow, careful not to make any sudden movements, even when he sees the 5-gallon jugs of water in the kitchen and the unopened boxes and tin cans in the pantry.

He scans the whole first floor and sees no one, so he treads up the carpeted stairs and looks around the second floor. Two bathrooms, three bedrooms, all the same as the bottom floor. Spotless. Every time he passes what looks like a picture frame, he turns it down to face the surface it sits on. He wants to know nothing of who lived here, of what family shared a bed and ate breakfast together and- Empathy, Dean joked, was always his greatest weakness, but this is no time to be feeling sorry for people who he never knew.  

When Sam goes into the first bedroom he half-expects to see dead, rotting bodies underneath the covers, but there’s no one. It’s off-putting, enough that it makes him want to go back into the Rabbit and drive as far away from here as possible, but he can’t deny the resources the house has. Instead, he checks the rest of the second floor and finds nothing concerning.

Sam can work with nothing.

What he most wants to do is eat and sleep, but Sam knows there are other things he has to take care of first. There’s the unconscious girl in the back of his car, who he carries up to a bedroom and dumps unceremoniously on the bed. When he lowers her, he tries to be as gentle as possible but his arms don’t have the strength, not anymore. After he’s so winded he can barely breathe and has to lean on a desk chair so he won’t pass out.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam looks at the girl. Her chest is moving, barely, and when he walks forward and lets his hand hover over her lips, he can tell she’s still breathing. So not a completely lost cause, not yet at least. Nihasa obviously took care of her vessel. The girl looks like a candle flame, golden-red hair like a halo around her head. Sam leans back then, analyzes the situation that almost two decades of hunting taught him how to do.

Is he in any immediate danger? No. Is it a possibility that being possessed took too much out of this girl and that she may be dead in a few hours? Yes. Does Sam feel guilty and responsible? Of course, he fucking does. As hard as he’s tried, as hard as the past year and a half has tried to teach him, he’ll never stop feeling like anyone who’s been possessed wasn’t his fault. He opens the Devil’s Gate in Wyoming, then did the same shit with Ruby. All the demons at play, they’re his fault. He can pretend all he wants that the Apocalypse and the Deal have rid him of his guilt, but Sam knows too much about lying to believe even this one.

His eyes flick back to the person on the bed.

Regardless of how deep the girl looks like she’s sleeping, Sam doesn’t trust that she might wake up during the time they’re gonna be stationed here for, even if he’s going to try and make their stay as short as possible. He looks around the room, a guest bedroom by the looks of it, and tries to find anything useful. The closets and the bathroom turn up empty, and the only thing he takes is the pen and blank notebook that sit inside the mahogany desk. Unnecessary for survival, but he lies and tells himself it’s for inventory. Of course, it fucking isn’t. A last peek at the girl sprawled on the bed, and he’s tucking the pen and notebook under his arm, closing the door gently.

Before he jams a chair under the doorknob, Sam thinks about how he didn’t smell rot and ruin on her breath anymore.

 

-x-

 

God.

Food has never tasted so good. If sparkling, shimmering, gushing gold tasted like anything, it would be canned soup. If victory and good and peace and success tasted like anything, it would be canned fucking soup. Sam’s bony fingers scrape against the metal ridges of the tin can as he scoops Spaghetti-O’s up and crams them into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Sam laughs out loud, mouth full, cold spaghetti dribbling down his mouth and splatting on the floor. He’s on his third can, the other two discarded on the ground. When he finishes eating, he grabs a dusty glass from one of the kitchen cabinets and cracks open one of the five-gallon jugs of water, tipping it with a grimace until it fills the glass to the rim. Once he tips it back, the water is gone in seconds. Then another, then another, then another, then another. Finally, when he feels like he’s no longer going to drop dead, he stands up from the grey kitchen tile all splotched with pasta. His legs are shaking.

It takes all of two seconds for Sam to start vomiting in the sink.

When he presses his hands to the shiny metal edges, his knuckles go white. His shoulders shake and everything that he just ate comes back up in an awful, painful cacophony. It feels like he’s expelling a demon from the inside, getting rid of all the dark shit he’s been keeping holed up. The harsh reality is he’s just getting rid of nutrients and water his body desperately needs. He coughs up what sticks around in his mouth and spits out bile, wiping his mouth after he gets it all out, and takes a glance at the knocked over glass on the floor and the empty cans. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Fucking moron.

 

-x-

 

Sam doesn’t dare try and eat again, at least not for another few hours.

There’s a shower upstairs in the master bedroom that he wants to check out, desperate to get clean.  If he was anything less than dizzy and exhausted he might have thought about the probability of running water being slim to none, but soon enough he’s toying with the shower-head. One eye is squinted, and his rapidly bruising back is leaned up against the glinting marble, hands meticulous at what they do. Dean could probably get this going in a matter of seconds Sam thinks, but then quickly dismiss the idea, because Dean? Dean’s not here, and thinking about him isn’t gonna do shit. He tweaks with the pipe a bit more, turns the knob, and then bangs twice at the shower-head with his elbow. At first, he hears nothing, then a soft rumbling, and finally, miraculously, water. Brown with rust and sediment, delivered in short spurts within the first minute of it being on.

Water.

 

-x-

 

He doesn’t really know how long he’s been under the spray. As he leans his head against the white marble, he sees blood and dirt run down the pristine surface, eyes slow in trailing it down the drain. With the soap and shampoo that was under the sink, Sam scrubbed at every square inch of his body, trying desperately to get rid of blood that wasn’t even entirely his. The stream of water steadily becomes slower, turning into random spurts here and there. Sam can barely nudge himself to move from the wall. A bar of fine French soap slips from his hands and clatters to the marble below, slowly sliding towards the drain. He blinks.

By the time he’s out and in front of the sink, it feels like an eternity has passed. One where everything is being handed on a platter to him except for the things he needs to survive. Except for the things he’d like. It’s like walking through a nightmare. In the mirror, he sees himself for the first time in months and he wonders blearily if Dean would still recognize him. Sam, surprisingly, still recognizes himself. His jaw and cheekbones are ten times more defined than usual, and all the healthy fat from his face is gone. Discolored bruises and raw cuts both new and old, pepper his face, adorn his nose. Cracked, desert-dry lips and half-lidded eyes. Patchy stubble from a half-assed shave before the demon attack. He smiles crookedly and sees bleeding gums. Things look wrong, but in his eyes, there’s still that old glint in his eyes of someone wanting to live. Ironically enough, he knows he’s not the one who gets to walk out of this one.

All the times he’s had blood on his hands and every time he’s scoured his skin just to try and get it off.  

Useless.

 

-x-

 

Attempt #2.

A little flame dances in the center of a Baies candle. The candle sits on the table along with a bowl of canned chili, a spoon, and a glass of powder lemonade. Sam half-smiles, albeit grudgingly, at the pseudo feast and sticks a cigarette in the flame. He smokes and eats slowly, taking his time and making sure to chew before he swallows.

Exhaustion washes over him like the sluggish tide, coming and going but never leaving permanently. When the butt of the cigarette slips from his fingers and his eyes flutter shut, he realizes he needs sleep, no denying it now. Sam finishes up his food and cleans everything up, not daring to leave a trace of himself on this world anymore. Not in this strange house, not with a sleeping girl, not anywhere. His feet are heavy as he walks upstairs and into the master bedroom, hand patting tiredly at the poorly-applied dressing on his side. It crosses his mind that he might need to stitch it, but there’s always tomorrow. Now he stares ardently at the king-size bed in the master bedroom.

The sheets are fucking silk, but he doesn’t even get to enjoy them because when he finally plops down, his eyes shut as if they’ve got the weight of the world on them.

And maybe it’s because they do.

 

-x-

 

“That shirt makes you look like a pedophile.”

“At least I don’t look like an extra from Texas Chainsaw Massacre”

“Shut your skinny ass up and get stitching, yeah?”

“Quit moving or I’m not gonna stitch anything up.” Sam chews on his bottom lip and ignores how shaky and stiff his hands are. Its Spring, but it’s still colder than a graveyard in Detroit. He finishes stitching the first gash and winces at how poorly it’s done. Ty’s back is now more bone and muscle than it is skin, long gashes running diagonally across the length of it.

Things are… not looking good. Sam presses his wrist to his mouth and eyes the damage, growing more and more worried. The barbed wire Ty managed to get caught on while they ran from the Croats was sharp, and worst of all, rusty. Infection at this point is more than likely, and Sam knows they ran out of meds last week. Once again, Sam has that flash of thought, that little part of his brain that tells him if he were alone, he would be traveling far away to somewhere warm and safe. He wouldn’t have Ty as a burden. As soon as the thought wedges itself into his head it’s gone, and Sam curls his lip in disgust at himself. God. He was never this selfish before.

“Ty, pass me the bottle," Sam says dryly, reaching a hand out to grab at the dusty bottle of Bacardi. If he’s going to do a proper job and stitch this up with any sort of decency he’s going to need something to warm him up. That, and he doesn’t want to think about how things used to be.

Ty takes a long swig for the pain and then passes it back to him, hissing as the movement pulls at the gashes on his back. The man is dazed, swaying ever so slightly in the windless tent. Sam amounts it to blood-loss, but he thinks giving Ty a once over after he finishes stitching would be the smart thing to do.

Sam tips the bottle back and then sets it down on the concrete next to him, getting ready to finish closing up Ty’s vicious cuts from the fence.

“You see any bone back there?” Ty asks, and Sam can’t see his face but by the sound of his voice, he can bet there’s a stupid smile on his face. Idiot.

“No, I’m not seeing any bone, dude that’s gross.”

“It’d be cool, admit it.” He pulls his black beanie tighter over his dreads, nodding lethargically.

“You are drunk.” Sam mutters under his breath, stitching faster and faster so he can just get in his goddamn sleeping bag. Of course, he sees bone. Ribs and scapula and God knows what else. Ripped flesh and dripping blood have never made Sam shaky, not when that was his life, but this is worse than most injuries. If he does a good enough job, and Ty tries hard enough to keep the wound clean, it might not all go to shit.

“Anything else hurt?” Sam asks, reaching to pull Ty’s beanie off.

“Hey! No one touches the hat or the dreads. Leave it!” Ty says, tucking forward into a little ball. He looks like he’s about to pass out.

“Fine.” Sam sighs and finishes up. He covers it all in gauze and bandages, wiping Ty’s back down with a towel damp from the snow, then helps him lie on his stomach and covers him with extra blankets.

“Thanks, Rick," Ty mumbles as he nestles into the moth-eaten blankets, and Sam’s eye twitches at the name that isn’t his. He couldn’t tell Ty his real name though, not when the Devil was hunting him down.

“Yeah well, don’t thank me yet, we’ll see if you don’t wake up with tetanus tomorrow.” Sam laughs coarsely and gets into his sleeping bag, tucking his hands under his armpits for warmth. He thinks he might be forgetting something.

“No seriously, thanks, Ricky.”

Ty must be really fucking drunk.

But it’s the end times, and Sam still has some sort of sentiment in him.

“Your welcome.” He whispers, not sure if the half-asleep man hears him. He looks at Ty, can see how pale and clammy he looks even from here, sees glassy eyes and drooping eyelids. Blood-loss, Sam thinks, it’s just blood loss. Nothing rest and some food and liquid won’t cure. Not that any of those things are easy to find. Sam turns on his side and stares at the hole-filled tent. It’ll be ok. Before he can close his eyes though, Ty drowsily murmurs something.  

“You goin’ to a fuckin luau or somethin'?”

“Asshole.”

 

-x-

 

A rattle.

As if someone threw an empty can out into the street.

Sam lifts his head up slowly, hand gravitating towards the rifle that lays behind him. He shifts up and out of the sleeping bag as quietly as he can, eyes focused on the ground as he moves into a squat. There is no best case scenario here, Sam thinks nervously. It’s either humans outside of the warehouse or Croats come to finish the job. Either way, with an injured Ty, they’re both screwed. Sam makes his hands stop shaking and tiptoes over to Ty, back bent so his head won’t hit the top of the tent.  
“Ty. Ty. Get the fuck up. Something’s outside.” Sam breathes. “Come on, get up.” He nudges the shabby sleeping bag with his foot.

“Ty!” Sam hisses, louder this time. Ty does not move so Sam finally turns his eyes to look at him. He kneels next to him. Reaches a hand out to touch his skin. The rifle clatters to the ground, but Sam doesn’t hear it. He thinks he screams but he doesn’t hear that either.

Cold, waxy skin. A congealed pool of blood under the sleeping bag. Eyes made of fragile glass.

“Oh.”

He lifts his hand up from where it’s resting on the concrete and sees it’s the color of red brick.

When he stumbles back onto his ass and doesn’t land on concrete and just keeps falling and falling and falling-

 

-x-

 

Sam shoots up.

He’s breathing hard, sweat drenching his jeans, legs sprawled on the bed. The sun filters through the creme curtains of the master bedroom and hits him in the eyes. He raises his arm to block the sun and is both horrified and relieved that his hand and wrist aren’t stained red, just bruised.

Fuck.

The memory of Ty’s death was one he tried to chop up into little pieces, one he tried to break apart and shatter. When that didn’t work, he built a wall around it. No connections, in the end, that was the smart way to live after everything changed.

Dreams though, they ruined all of that. You can’t control what you dream about, what nightmares come crawling into your mind when your eyes are closed. Sam leans forward and cradles his head in his hands.

He’s getting out of this house as soon as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> according to me and Hila, "stomach acid on the nails i stan",


	3. Chapter 3

The Rabbit is full to bursting, ready to pop open with all the extra supplies Sam stuffed in it. He tries to take only what he needs and to go light but there’s a girl slumped in the backseat who’s taking up more space than he would like. It’s mean, he thinks, to want to abandon her when she was used by Nihasa for god knows how long. Sam knows exactly what possession feels like and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone else, but he doesn’t even know if she’ll ever wake up. For all he knows, he could be lugging a dead body around. He sits in the front seat and leans his head back against the headrest, eyes closed against the harsh sun. 

Sam’s tired. He lights a cigarette and puts it in between his lips, relishing the chemical warmth that courses through his chest. He’s tired of being tired. He’s tired of fighting for an end that is guaranteed. When he and Dean fought monsters when he and Dean had hope… That was only because they could imagine an end where they won. Now there’s nothing but a prescribed future, something certain, and tangible and unchangeable. Sam’s not getting out of this, even if he called Dean right now and asked him if they could try and beat the Devil together. The worst part might just be that he knows Dean would say no.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if September rolled around sooner rather than later.

He’d be lying if he said he was living for anything anymore.

 

-x-

 

A wrapper flies out the window, and Sam whips his arm out to try and catch it before it sails into the Interstate 40, but it’s too late. It flaps along with the wind, dipping out into the horizon of the Sierra Nevada. Sam watches as it goes, eyes following it into the ceaseless blue sky until the car runs over something, probably a rock.

“Shit,” He hisses and turns back around, eyes on the road. Hands at 10 and 2, as Dean, said when he taught him how to drive. When he lived with Jess he always wondered if he was ever going to get to teach someone to drive, if he was ever going to get to tell them about 10 and 2 and what PRNDL stands for. Then Jess died, time passed on, and Sam just kept getting deeper and deeper, the world forming into a never-ending downward spiral. It occurred to him, a few times, that he didn’t deserve to teach anyone anything. Not driving, or basic survival skills, or how to make a decent omelet. The only person he could share his knowledge with was Dean, and even then it was things Dean didn’t care about or seem particularly interested in. Now all his knowledge is his own, something he can no longer share. Maybe Lucifer will take it and put it to good use.

The thought instantly puts him on edge.

In a few minutes, he chooses to forget all about 10 and 2, sticks a cigarette in his mouth and lights her up, driving with a carelessness he never allowed himself to have. Not like there are any other cars on the road to crash into anyway. He glances at the girl still slumped in the back a few times, then clumsily checks on his Croat bite, fingers blundering as they try to peel off the poor dressing he slapped on. 

The bite marks are redder and deeper than he remembers, but then again it could just be the perpetual exhaustion that seems to plague him, making everything look worse than what it is. The dressing is soggy with yellowish fluid from the wound, so he doesn’t bother trying to stick it back on, and just lets his shirt flop back down. Even though he can’t see the bite marks through the swelling, he wants to pretend it’s fine, wants to just let it go until Lucifer comes-a-callin’.

Sam knocks on the gas meter of the car to distract himself, 99% sure it’s broken. The little arrow bounces up and down occasionally, telling him something he already knows will surely happen.

The Rabbit will, effectively, run out of gas. 

Not now, but eventually. There are no more people digging for oil. No more people manning gas stations. No more gas being produced or sorted or distributed. In fact, if Sam concentrates enough and his mind goes fuzzy on the details, there’s barely any people at all. Just him, and- The girl who might be in a permanent coma lying in the back seat. 

He just has to make it to California and maybe back to Detroit. If gas supplies, or lack thereof, don’t allow, Sam knows the devil will snap him to wherever the hell he is. It seems stupid, to snicker at his own joke, but he does anyway, biting his lip to keep from smiling too hard. It’s not even funny, but when he takes a drag from his cigarette, he chokes on laughter, a quiet giggle escalating until he’s trying hard not to piss his pants.

It’s not exactly easy to hear the girl in the backseat talking when he’s fucking cackling like that.

“Hello?”

The light tap on his shoulder has the Rabbit skidding, cig crushed between his teeth as the wheel slides between his hands. He saves the car right before it slides off the road and into the ditch of the desert, the smell of burnt rubber coming in through the windows as they sit in the middle of the road. Sam inhales a few times, trying to suck in as much air as possible before he realizes there’s still a stranger in the backseat and a freakout would be the least optimal thing at this point. He’s slow when he turns around to face her, pulling out his cigarette and blowing out to the side.

It’s always been a thing of his, to appear the least menacing possible. I want to blend in, not stand out, is what he told Dean and John once he had his final growth spurt, but they just laughed, saying that someone of his height and build shouldn’t be trying to blend in. It was useful for the hunt, sure, but his strengths never lied in how tall he was or how much muscle he could gain. Now that he thought about it, the whole “gentle giant” act really wore him out. Not that it ever felt like an act, but it was hard trying to push past a part of himself and pretend it didn’t exist. When he turns around to talk to the girl though, it’s like years and years of muscle memory come to haunt him.

“Where- Where am I?” At first, the girl seems terrified, eyes taking Sam in, then the rest of the Rabbit, shoulders drawn up. Then her eyes narrow, and when she spits out a “Who the fuck are you?”. There’s a menace to it he’s strangely grateful for.

“Hey, calm down, calm down, I can explain," Sam says slowly, not moving an inch.

“Uh-huh, explain to me how we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere and I’m in some strangers car,” She hisses, eyes flicking to outside the window, hand shooting to the door handle then stopping halfway. “You kidnap me or something?” 

“What’s your name?” Sam asks.

“Why am in your car?” The girl’s hand gets closer to the handle, but her eyes stay on the world outside the car. The giant empty world that he thinks this girl might not know about. “Wait, wait, this is an interstate, that’s the Sierra Nevada, I know-” 

“What’s your last memory? I mean, before Nihasa possessed you?” Sam asks quietly. 

“Possessed?” She turns her head back at him, a strange look on her face, eyes cloudy with confusion. 

He blinks. Most people aren’t accustomed to possession, he knows that, but the way she stares at him as if she doesn’t even have memories of not being in control. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m getting out of here-” She opens the door, steps out into the arid heat of the Mojave. 

“Hey, Hey!” Sam calls out, louder this time, turning around quickly and opening the door to follow. As soon as he stands up and steps out he whistles, the pain in his side flaring up.

She stumbles, like a newborn deer, out into the stretch of highway. Her head turns to look around at the carnage of what used to be America, eyes wild. Even though its the desert, people still dumped their shit here. He can almost imagine it. A family who over-packed, throwing things out the window as they maneuvered through the traffic of millions trying to escape and find shelter. Sam always wondered where they were looking. Rusted, broken cars lay on the side of the road. There’s probably some that have rotting bodies, skeletons chipped away by scavengers. Metal scraps lay littered across the road and the desert, puzzle pieces of what used to be.

“Jesus, what the hell happened-”

“Look, just- What’s your name? Tell me your name.” Sam asks, following her as she speed-walks down the tarmac. 

“Why are there no cars? Why are we the only ones on the road?” She’s getting frenzied, panicked by the sight of things. Logically, so would anyone, but they don’t have time for this. He doesn’t have time for this, but he’s not about to leave her either. 

“Just cool down and I can explain, ok?” He drops his cigarette when he feels heat climb up between his knuckles, and keeps walking forward. Any explanations about possession or Nihasa will have to wait, and it dawns on him that maybe this girl hasn’t even gotten a taste of the Apocalypse. “Tell me your name.” He asks again, each time his voice turning gentler as if speaking to a frightened puppy.

“Malina. It’s Malin-” The girl runs her hands through copper hair, finally stopping. “Mal," she says out of breath. 

“Mal, I’m Sam. I need to explain something to you,” Sam stops walking when every step makes the throb of his ribs twice as intense, and he presses a hand over his shirt that’s become sticky with blood. Once he’s standing a safe distance from Mal he goes on. “The world isn’t what it used to be, something- Something happened.”

When she just stays staring, he continues, bracing himself for the shit-storm that’s he’s about to hit her with. 

“Over a year ago, someone broke out a virus.” (Him, but he won’t say that.)   
“Now there’s a disease.” (Lucifer, but he won’t call him that.)  
“Not many survived, and those who did are slowly dying off.” (Humans, killed like an infestation of cockroaches.)  
“It’s the End.” (The finale, or the bitter denouement to something they could never avoid.)

A hand finds itself at Mal’s mouth, covering for whatever she might want to say next. The water in her eyes reflects all of Sam’s failures, big and bright and golden, like the night when he set the world on fire. She spins slowly, taking it all in. 

“Fuck. Oh, fuck.” After Mal whispers that, Sam finds he has nothing to say.

They stand still on the highway, where nothing talks or, buzzes, or rumbles, or thumps, or howls, or rasps, or breathes. 

And so they are left, in utter silence. 

 

-x-

 

“Lucifer? Like... the Devil?” 

“Yes, and demons, angels, they’re real too.” Sam passes Mal a cigarette, and she takes it, eyes foggy and locked on the never-ending road ahead. When he reaches over to light her cigarette she speaks up again.

“And one of them possessed me?” She asks, voice faint.

“Her name was Nihasa," Sam says, his voice toneless, then he takes a drag of his cig and leans back against the windshield of the Rabbit. He feels dizzy, whether it’s from driving all day or admitting everything to Mal he doesn’t know. At first, he thought telling her would only further confuse and scare her, but now she sits next to him silently, only asking the most essential questions. It’s as if she wants to know only what she needs to. “What’s the last thing you remember doing?” He asks through a haze of grey smoke.

“I- I was working. I did uh,” Mal scrubs a hand across her face, expression vacant. “I was a waitress at a diner in NYC, went to NYU… I took the trash out one day I think, and then-” 

“It’s ok if you don’t remember. People who’ve been possessed usually don’t,” Sam sighs, turning to look at her. 

Mal smiles darkly, a tiny laugh crinkling her mouth into a sad grin. “Jesus. I even think I was having an argument with my sister on the phone. I think the last thing I did before everything went blank was call her a bitch. She probably isn’t even alive anymore, huh?” 

Sam stares at her silhouette against the darkening sky, then flicks his cigarette onto the road. 

“It wasn’t your fault. There was no way for you to know the world was about to go to shit. Or that-” He doesn’t know how to put this gently. “That someone was about to take control of you.”

Mal wipes her eye with the heel of her hand and takes a sip out of the jug of water Sam gave her, clears her throat. 

“You said there were angels.” She says, voice louder now. “They fighting the good fight?”

“Are you religious?” He squeezes his eyes tight, pinching the bridge of his nose to try and ward off a coming headache.

“Christian.”

“I knew an angel once.” Sam opens his eyes and slides off the hood quickly, noticing how the night has fully settled in. “He was an ass.”

Driving in the dark isn’t safe, and the headlights of the Rabbit are too screwy to rely on, but he’s wasted enough time. He opens the driver door and gets in the car, starting the engine. “You coming?” 

“Where- where are you going?” Mal scrambles off the hood and stands off to the side, peering at Sam through the open window. 

“California.” He leans back and looks out behind him, making sure nothing blocks him on the way out. “You comin’?” 

Mal looks around quickly, while Sam grabs a towel from the backseat, tucking it under his crusted shirt.

“I know you said not a lot of people are left, but there’s no one here…” 

“Look Mal, I know you’re confused and you don’t know what’s going on, but I have to go. Either come with me or stay here.” Sam says roughly. He knows he’s being harsher than he should, that none of this is the girls' fault. For having just been introduced to the supernatural, and the fucking apocalypse, she’s being much calmer than Sam could ever have expected. He watches her gnaw on her bottom lip, still considering if she should drive off with a man she barely met. From Sam’s point of view, she doesn’t have many options.

“You comin’?” He asks the last time.

Mal nods shortly and folds herself into the Rabbit.

 

-x-

 

“You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure you should be driving?” 

“I’m fine.”

“I saw some clothes in the back. That shirt reeks, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it’s full of holes. Did I mention you’re bleeding?” 

Sam quickly glances down at his shirt. The Tourist Shirt, as he has come to call it, is, in fact, full of holes. And rips, and questionable stains with vague explanations, but it’s not like he owns detergent. The whole right side is looking fowl, and Mal’s right when she says he should probably change, but something about having just met her makes him reluctant to listen to what she says. Also, the shirt, the stupid Hawaiian shirt that he doesn’t want to let go  

“You talk a lot, you know that?” He laughs, but the sound isn’t entirely real. It’s like the laughs he’d make on cases when Dean was trying to pull a shitty joke over something morbid. It’s like the laughs he’d force out when someone told him bad fucking news that he just had to deal with. 

“Hm. Maybe you’re just too quiet.” 

That one gets Sam to laugh a little.

“I’m gonna sleep if that’s...ok. I’d like to think you’re not going to kill me, or open the door and push me out of the moving car, or-” Mal has a smile on her face and Sam has to admit it’s contagious to see someone being humorous. No one’s cracked a joke with him since before Ty died. It’s almost like she doesn’t know it’s all coming to a jarring halt. 

“I won’t push you out a window, promise,” Sam says softly.

The dim light of the Rabbit makes her eyes flash the color of whiskey, and he knows he can only offer her the closest thing he has to smile. It isn’t much, but when she turns to face the window, he knows she’s still got a smile on her face.

When she turns to face the window, his smile goes away. He drives for a few more miles then pulls onto the shoulder of the road, even though stopping in the middle wouldn’t be bothering anyone. His side aches, like there’s a pulsing thing inside it, waiting to crawl out of his flesh. Sam tries to take slow, deep breaths to minimize the pain, but each time he just comes back to it with a razor-sharp focus. His whole body is sore from the demon fight, but the Croat bite is nagging him worse than any injury he’s ever gotten since the start of this mess. When he tries to peel the towel off of his side it sticks to his skin and hurts so fucking much he has to leave it halfway. A shudder runs through him and he turns the engine back on, pulling his shirt back down. Driving will help distract him from the pain, is his first thought, but either way, he knows he has to get going.

Shakily he taps on the steering wheel with his thumb and hums Ty’s broken little tune.

 

-x-

 

“Ok, look I’m just saying, if you pull over and I drive, then you can dress that wound, change out of that gross-ass shirt.”

“It’s my car,”

“And it smells like roadkill in here, what’s your point?” Mal doesn’t even stutter.

“Ok, ok, fine.  I’ll pull over,” Sam sighs.

He and Mal switch places, and by the time he’s in the passenger seat, he doesn’t even care that he just relinquished total control of the car to her. He’s exhausted, and in pain, and hungry. It’s hard, to say the least, trying to reach all the way back and grab stuff. Mal drives relatively smooth, but every hard bounce of the car and he has to sit back down and take a breath.

“You don’t have pain meds or anything?” She asks.

Sam only stares at her for a second.

“Right. Apocalypse, and all…” Mal bites the inside of her cheek. 

Eventually, he manages to grab the med kit, the bag of food, and a celadon-colored tee that’s about three sizes too big for him. He slides back into the front seat and hands Mal a bag of jerky, then unbuttons the Tourist Shirt. 

“You should burn that,” Mal says as she rips open the jerky with her teeth.

“Uh-huh, eyes on the road,” Sam’s only half-paying attention to her side comments, too busy trying to cut the towel off with some surgical scissors. By the time it comes off his jaw is so clenched he thinks it might not open again. The relief he feels is temporary though, and soon enough the throbbing gets worse than before. Jesus, if it wasn’t on the verge of infection before it’s fucking infected now. After he dresses it and lathers it with what he thinks is non-expired antibiotic cream, he puts the clean shirt on, slumping back into the seat and closing his eyes. 

“You ok, Sam?” The voice coming through his ears is hazy, and he feels himself quickly lulling into sleep along with the steady thrum of the engine beneath him. For the first time in forever, he doesn’t even want to eat anything. He just wants to sleep/

“Yeah,” Absently he wonders when he told Mal his name. He thinks he never did, but the thought is soon forgotten along with everything else. “I’m fine.”


	4. Chapter 4

Opening your eyelids should not feel like running a marathon, especially when you used to run them with ease.  Sam’s not being cocky either, just realistic.

The car is easing onto a bumpier terrain, jostling him and the contents of the car around. Sam’ sitting up slowly, rubbing his eyes like a little kid, when something wet falls on his lap. He blinks a few times, swallows roughly, then looks down.

“What the- What is this?” He croaks, holding up the damp cloth. Mal doesn’t answer, a look of concentration so intense it seems tangible, on her face. Her tongue is sticking out, and she’s holding a lit cigarette in one hand. Sam would want to complain about theft, but he’s more curious about where the fuck they are than anything.

“Mal, where-” Sam sits up even more, biting his lip to keep from groaning in pain. “Holy hell,” He breathes out slowly, pressing a palm to his side. When he’s composed enough, he turns to face her, but finds she’s already opened the door and left the car. No, he doesn’t see Mal.

Sam sees the ocean.

A sound escapes his lips, and he covers his mouth with his wrist, eyes widening. It’s unreal. He steps out of the car as if he hasn’t seen the Pacific hundreds of times before, feet coming into contact with sand he knows is soft. With one hand hovering over the stinging metal of the Rabbit he goes around the car, walking forward like he’s hypnotized.

The beautiful blue, the never-ending spread of cerulean, drifting until it melds with the sky.

Mal’s standing ahead of him, close to the waves already, hands held out like she’s Jesus on the cross.

The sun is at its peak in the sky, but Sam isn’t hot. Instead, the breeze raises the hair on his arms, gives him goosebumps. He takes his timing walking over to Mal, bending his legs behind him and taking his shoes off. Sand works its way in between his toes. When he finally stands next to her, he’s the first to talk.

“How’d you know? I mean… I said California, I never said-” He looks down when the cool water reaches his feet.

“It was on your map. You circled it in big black marker.” She says, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Any particular reason you wanted to come to Laguna Beach? It’s incredible, I can see that now, but you could have driven to Mexico.” Mal laughs. Sam realizes she does that a lot. Her eyes crinkle and her teeth shine like pearls in the sun. He likes it.

It makes him think of the real reason he’s here and he hates it.

“I… I had a girlfriend. It was a long time ago, but,” Sam steps back from the water and sits on the sand, turning his face up to the sky. “We used to come here all the time.”

“Did it kill her? The virus, I mean.” Mal asks.

“No,” And with that, he thinks it might have hurt less if it had. He would have had more time with her. Maybe they’d be married by now. Have kids. He’d be a lawyer, she’d be a nurse, they’d drive down to the beach on the weekends… “No, Jessica died in a fire.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Sam turns back to face Mal and draws his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. She stares at him then jogs to the Rabbit, returning with the jug of water, and a change of clothes. Sam raises his eyebrows at her.

“What? It’s hot out.” She lets herself fall down next to him, then takes the jug of water and pours some on her face, scrubbing it with the hem of her shirt.

“You could have just gone in the ocean, and I don’t know,” Sam laughs, “Not wasted our water supply. Salt’s a natural exfoliator.”

“I’ve never been in the ocean. I don’t even know how to swim.” Mal’s stare turns hard, eyes stoic as she ties her hair back into a ponytail.

“Not dipped a toe in?”

“Nope, and I don’t plan on it either,”

“Okay,” Sam draws out the word, holding up his hands in surrender. “But you’re gonna be the one who replaces the wasted water.”

That gets a smile back on her face

“Mhm, sure.” Mal lies down, bringing her arms up to cover her eyes. “I assume you’re not going in either, with the fever and all that.”

“What fever?” Sam asks cautiously.

“Oh… you were sleeping, right. That cloth on your forehead? I was trying to bring it down.” She reaches a hand over and lays it on his forehead. Sam resists the urge to recoil, resist the urge to lean into the touch. Human contact is rare now, and whenever it happens it’s either welcome or the exact opposite. Sam just stays still until she puts her arm back down.

“I’d say it’s low now. Should be gone by the nighttime.”  

He nods then lies down, settling into the sand. He knows he’ll be burnt in less than an hour, and his skin will peel again. For the first week he was in the Southwest his skin burned and blistered, then it peeled and turned olive. Now if he looks anything how he feels… He’s sure it isn’t good. Eventually, his eyes close and he manages to temporarily ignore the pain in his side, instead focusing on the gentle lull of the waves.

The sound of splashing and drops of water landing on him make him sit up.

“Hey," Mal says, standing above him. “You hungry?”

 

-x-

 

Sam doesn’t have much of an appetite, but he helps Mal set up with what he can. They lay one of the blankets out on the beach and set out some food. He even reveals the container of powdered lemonade and mixes it into some of their water.

“Where’d you get all this?” Mal asks as she cracks open the canned tomatoes.

“When you were unconscious I found a house on my way here. Mostly untouched, and they had a shitload of non-perishables. I took all that I could,” Sam sips at his lemonade, legs stretched out in front of him.

“Jesus, Winchester…” Mal grabs some dried cranberries and throws them into the air, catching them in her mouth. “I’m impressed you’ve made it this far.” She says through a mouth full of fruit.

The comment catches him off guard.

“What do you mean?”

She stops throwing cranberries and stares at him with wide amber eyes. “Well, I mean, when I was driving I saw everything. People, Croats, devastation. I’m just, I don’t know- You seem like you knew this was going to happen,”

“I’d like to think I’m just a resourceful guy,” He swallows dryly, runs a hand through his hair. When he takes a slightly crushed cigarette out of his pocket and tries to light it, his hands shake.

“Hm.” Mal hums and stares out at the sunset. It looks like God dipped his paintbrush into the Grand Canyon and spread it over the sky. “One last question, then I won’t ask anything else, promise.”

“Shoot.” Sam chuckles, happy to be moving the conversation elsewhere.

“Where’d you get all the cigs? You have a whole fuckin’ box of em.”

“Just had an old friend who was an addict. Bad influence, as you can see,” He takes a drag and smiles sadly.

“Sam, you have a lot of old things. There’s nothing you find worthwhile? No one?” Mal leans closer to him, genuine curiosity on her face. Her face is close enough to him that he can see every detail about her. She’s gorgeous, is what passes through Sam’s brain, but just as quickly he dismisses it.

“No more questions, you promised.” He complains jokingly, leaning back on his elbows.

“I just have one more…” There’s mirth in Mal’s eyes, lips quirked up in an inviting smile. Before he even processes what she just said, her hand reaches over and plucks the cigarette from his lips, tossing it into the sand.

“Mal, what the fuck-”

Sam’s protest is cut off when she presses her lips against his, pushing him back. He sinks into the sand when Mal stops and hovers above him, breathless. For a second he’s stunned, torn between wanting to shove her off and pull her back in. When he wraps an arm around her waist and their lips meet again, he finds it’s not a difficult choice to make.

He never fucking liked celadon anyway.

 

-x-

 

The beach is cold.

When he wakes up he feels woozy, like a blanket of fog was pulled over him and never pulled back up. He reaches a hand out, looking for the warm body he spent the night next to, but Mal isn’t there. The fog dissipates pretty quickly after that. Sam scrambles up with a grimace, hopping around as he pulls on his jeans, then throwing the blanket up to grab his t-shirt from underneath.

He pulls it on, tripping as he walks around the beach.

“Mal!” He yells, voice hoarse. “Mal! Where are you?”

The blanket of fog from earlier turns out to be not so much his imagination but reality. It settles on the beach and over the rocks, spreading out onto the ocean. Everything is grey as if the world has turned into a black and white film.

“Mal!” He screams again, and his voice cracks on the a.

The waves are slamming into the sand, soaking the bottom of his jeans.

“Malina!”

He circles back to where the blanket is and picks it up. Her clothes aren’t there. Shit, shit, shit. Sam goes back to the Rabbit and opens the door of the driver’s seat, but she isn’t inside the car either. Before he closes the door he grabs a jacket and tucks his gun into the waistband of his jeans.

When he feels around in his pockets, he feels a cigarette, but no lighter. He always has his lighter on him.

“Mal!”

Every step he takes away from the Rabbit and further down the beach, things feel worse and worse. He’s slow, for starters, so if anything or anyone were to attack he’d have his gun and who knows how much adrenaline would be able to kick him into a fight.

In the distance, smoke rises and brews with the fog.

“Fuck, no no no, no,” He mutters under his breath as he breaks into a run, following the trail of smoke where it seems to disappear into the clouds.

A fire burns high, bright flames roaring and cracking uncontrollably. Behind the fire stands Mal, throwing things into the middle of the pit.

“Mal, what are you-” Sam coughs, his lungs struggling to get enough air. “What are you doing?” He has to yell to be heard over the waves and the fire and the wind.

The grin on her face doesn’t make him laugh now.

Before she can throw something else into the fire he runs forward and knocks her over, pinning her arm to the ground.

“What are you doing? What-” Sam’s breathless, barely aware of his knees pressed on her stomach. His eyes go to the object in her hand, and he feels like someone’s kicked him in the teeth.

“You’re burning the food?” He whispers, his gut churning because something is wrong and once again he is too goddamn late or just too fucking stupid to understand-

“Sorry, Pretty Boy.”

Sam’s heart races like the Rabbit down the interstate, his lungs fill up with too much or air or too little, his eyes blur with a reflection of the truth.

“There was just something about you. I thought you’d realized what you’d chosen. But deep down, I saw that you still had hope. Hope that I had to crush like an ant under a boot.”

She elbows him in the sternum and knocks him back, away from the fire, then puts a knee to his throat.

“Ruby was right, you know. I see the appeal now.”

He can’t breathe, but he doesn’t think he wants to.

“You’re a fighter. Never know how to fucking quit, do you?”

She cracks him against the jaw and then stands up and kicks him right in the fucking Croat bite. Everything explodes into galaxies and constellations, turning in his vision like a kaleidoscope. Sam thinks he blacks out for a second because when he sees rust-red hair again, he’s being dragged down to the water by his shirt.

All he can focus on is the ugly celadon that practically blends in with everything else, too grey to really distinguish. He thinks there’s blood running down his face because his mouth tastes like copper and rusty metal. It all becomes so disjointed he can barely

Metal waves around in her hand, like a flag, and he realizes it’s the Glock.

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. I couldn’t just let you hurt my gang and get away with it,” She snarls, dragging him down the beach.

“Nihasa…. Nihasa, please,” Sam pleads, his hands scrabbling at her wrists. It’s only when he’s lost everything that he realizes he’s not past begging anymore. “You don’t need to do what he tells you. The world is already yours… Please,” Sam’s not dumb. He knows there’s no way out of this one, he has no weapons, no anything. He just doesn’t understand why.

“And you know what’s even worse, Sam?” Nihasa ignores him and drops him onto the damp sand. “I might’ve even seen why people found you and your brother intimidating. Now? Not so much.”

Sam can barely process what the hell is going on, let alone, take a breath. He lays on the beach, staring up at Nihasa, trying to inhale steadily. It becomes harder when she pushes her heel into his chest. He throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, afraid, afraid of everything that’s happening, everything that could happen to him.  She looks out to the horizon, mouth set in a grim line, then points the gun at him with a steady hand. Takes the safety off.

Suddenly the ocean rushes up over his head, into his ears, into his mouth. It burns, but when he opens them, he figures it out. Stinging realization hits him with the incoming tide. Sam can’t see anything except for the murky Pacific, and she hurts, but he puts his hands on ribs, feeling until he grabs at Nihasa’s ankle. Then he yanks her leg and fleeting panic enters him as she topples over like a tower of stone.

Through the panic though, he hears it. It’s hard to distinguish, but like music to his ears, he hears the sizzling of skin, like boiling water.

 

Sam grabs a handful of hair and pulls Nihasa off, desperately coming up for air. He gasps, taking in lungfuls and trips backward, his vision blurring as he falls further into the waves. She’s screaming, words tumbling out of her mouth, stumbling in the water. The Glock floats in the water, dipping under and up, and he throws himself in its direction, snatching it out of the water before it can go back under.

His hands shake, and it almost slips out of his hands and back into the water.

Nihasa is sluggish as she stands up, trying to get out of the seawater, but she’s already off balance, so Sam launches himself forward and knocks her back down. Her skin is puckered and charred, like a layer of clothes that is melting up. His stomach turns as his hands come into contact with her bare shoulders, the texture of her ruined skin instantly making him nauseous. Nihasa struggles, trying to come back up, but Sam is almost standing on her, pushing her down even when the waves threaten to knock him back. After a few minutes, her shoulders stop moving, and her body stops bucking underneath him. He thinks he might be holding down muscle and bone. The salt in the ocean will kill her, he knows that.

But when he unloads all his bullets into her skull, he does it just to be sure.

Sam stands up and backs away, the body floating to the surface. Soon enough the waves are carrying Nihasa away, dragging out into the depths of the Pacific He shuffles back, coming out of the ocean, with bewilderment in his eyes.

It’s the infinite blood-bath.

The water smacks against his ankles, backing him up even further. He bends over, hands on his knees, and retches up whatever was left of yesterday’s meal. There’s nothing left to think about, nothing left to ponder anymore. He just runs a wrist across his mouth and accepts what he already knows.

Tears well up in his eyes, but it might just be saltwater. They run down his cheeks, but it might just be rain. Something splats on the sand, but it might just be blood. A fist connects with his forehead again and again and again, and it’s only anger.

It’s a slow limp back to the Rabbit.

 

-x-

 

He crawls into the trunk, and lays down, pulling the blanket over his soaked clothes. It’s never been like this before, but when he crawls into a ball and presses his hands over his ears he hopes its the end.

 

-x-

 

“Dude, what the fuck is this? Your car sucks. Like I get we’re in the Apocalypse and all, but this is such a downgrade. From baby to this? I’m disappointed Sammy.”

Dean.

Dean?

Sam opens ten-tonne eyes, looks up to the front of the car blearily. Spiky hair, a green army surplus jacket, rough, hungover voice. Or it would be if Dean even got hangovers anymore.

But still-

It’s Dean. Sitting in his front seat, rummaging through his shit. Under normal circumstances, Sam would stutter, mumble his way to a response, too shaken up to really say anything. Now he just shifts under the blankets, eyes wandering up to the stained roof of the car. God, he feels like shit.

“Yeah, well you didn’t leave me much of a choice,” Sam mutters. “You took the Impala.”

Dean stops looking through the stuff in the passenger seat, pulling out the box of cigs. “Since when do you smoke?”

“Since I started starving.”

“Fair enough.” Dean does not stop to look at him, doesn’t ask anything, just turns and puts the box back, hands continuing to rummage through Sam’s things. He still hasn’t glanced at Sam.

“It’s a good car by Apocalypse standards," Sam says, struggling to lean up on his elbow. His body feels disjointed like it’s been connected wrong.

“Mm, you keep telling yourself that little brother.” Dean mumbles.

“What?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing, just-” Dean takes a peek at the meters on the Rabbit, scratching his temple with an index finger. “You’re almost out of gas.”

“Fuck,” Sam grumbles from underneath the blankets, eyes finally accepting the weak light coming from the car. Although he already knew that, didn’t he.

Dean finally turns to look at him, eyes widening for a second, reaching over to see Sam in the dim light of dawn.

“The Apocalypse has not been treating you well. You look like shit.” Dean slings an arm over the driver’s seat.

“So I’ve been told.” He sits up and leans against the side of the car, clutching his arms tighter around himself. Everything smells like rust and blood and must, and whether there’s a whiff of humiliation or humidity, he can’t tell.

“No, really, man," Dean says pointedly. “You look terrible.”

Sam is not going to fall for this shit, not again. He’s a fucking idiot, that’s been made increasingly clear, but he’s seen this trick pulled enough times that he will not fucking fall for it again.

“What day is it?” Sam asks, taking his shirt off, as slowly as he can. His whole side is a mix of purple blue’s and blacks, the epicenter being the Croat bite.

“Huh?”

“Don’t act fucking stupid, what day is it?”

“Samm-”

“Fucking answer me!” Sam yells, looking up to the driver’s seat.

Dean smiles then, resting his elbows on the middle compartment and his chin in his hands.

“There are exactly 48 hours left until your time is up, Samuel.” Lucifer exhales, still wearing Dean’s face.

Motherfucker.

“I was doing you favors along the way, yet-” Lucifer picks up the Tourist Shirt then tosses it back on the ground with a look of disgust. “You still managed to mess up. Couldn’t even keep yourself going till the end, could you? At least I tried…”

“The house, that was you?” Sam sniffs, running his hands through his hair,

“Of course it was. I had to keep you alive until September, simply because I didn’t trust that you wouldn’t die if left to your own devices.”

“And Ty?”

“Oh… Tyler, was, well, how do I put this?” Lucifer has on an expression that is so unlike Dean that it makes Sam sick. “He was bothering me, with that stupid guitar. I had the Croats take care of that.”

Sam has to bite on the base of his thumb to keep blind impulse from tearing something apart.

“So you sent Nihasa. To do what? If you didn’t want me dead, then you damn well failed at communicating that to your people.”

“I told them it was okay if they toyed around with you for a little bit, you know, had a little fun!” Lucifer says with enthusiasm. “As long as they didn’t end your life. Now that you bring it up, Nihasa was always a bit of a sadist… Anyway, she went a little too far. I had to bring you back.”

Sam stops toying with his shirt.

“What?”

“Mm, yeah, you died during the night. Infection, fever, and all that. Actually, I didn’t completely fix you,  you’ll continue to get worse again, so just-” Lucifer bites his lip. “Be careful with that for me, would you? Just until the day after tomorrow.”

“Listen, you fuckin’ bastard, I swear to God-”

“Ah, ah ah,” Lucifer holds up a finger then turns around, throwing Sam the Tourist Shirt. “I have things to take care of, but I have one last “gift” for you.” He opens the door and gets out.

Sam blinks rapidly and grabs his shirt, opening the trunk and stumbling out of the car.

“Where are you going?”  He shouts, buttoning on his shirt as he staggers in the direction Lucifer’s gone.

“You’ll only have a few minutes, so make it snappy”

“Hey!” Sam screams.

“Oh, and Sam, burn that shirt!” Lucifer calls out, right before the fog swallows him whole.

Sam stands immobile for a few seconds, head spinning with a force he can’t control.

“Fuck you! Fuck you and all your fucking demons!” Sam yells, loud enough that he thinks the whole world might be able to hear him. “Fuck your stupid plan and your stupid prophecies and our whole goddamn deal. Fuck all of it!” He’s stumbling now, running as fast he can to where Lucifer disappeared, weak legs only getting him so far. It occurs to him that he could either be talking about Lucifer, or himself, but now it doesn’t matter. In a few days, they’ll be the same person anyway.

“You, you…” Sam can’t even take a breath before his skull collides with the ground.

 

-x-

 

He lands like he’s dropped out of the sky, bony ass connecting with a hard-wood floor.  
“Jesus, shit,” He breathes out, hand rubbing his ass.

“Hey, what the fuck? ” Someone calls out, their stomping on the floor, sound coming in through a hallway- Sam looks around the room quickly. It’s dark, but he can see the assortment of weapons on the far wall, the sigils on almost every surface of the room, racks lined with cans and cans of food. The room is fully stocked for the End.

“Hey, how the fuck did you get in-”

Sam looks up from his spot on the floor.

“Sam.”

So this is Lucifer’s gift. One final moment with his brother before he has to give himself up.

Dean, for all it’s worth, looks great. He looks well-fed, and clean, which is more than Sam could have ever hoped for in the past few months. Except for the beard and the dark circles under his eyes, Dean looks fine. Older, more like a thirty-five-year-old man than one of thirty, but fine. Sam feels relief flood through him, a happy sound escape through his lips.

“Sammy?”

“Hey, Dean,” Sam replies, scrubbing a hand over his face.

There’s a look on his brother’s face that conveys worry and concern, and sentiments that Sam isn’t used to anymore but that he knows he’ll always be able to recognize.

“How did you- What the hell- I-” Dean’s at a loss for words, keeping his distance from Sam. “You didn’t say yes, did you?”

Of fucking course, this is how they were going to meet. Dean apprehension and doubt, Sam falling apart but wholly free.

“No.” And then he remembers Lucifer’s only granting them a few minutes. “Not yet, but I will be.”

“He- He brought you here?” Dean inches closer, incredulity clear on his face. There’s a machine gun strapped on him, and Sam can see his finger shifting precariously over the trigger.

“Yes, yes he did, but listen to me Dean,” Sam feels like he should struggle to stand up, but he feels weightless, like he could take a whole entire fucking army of Nihasas right now. Like everything has been fixed. Oh, and he knows it hasn’t and it won’t ever be. Dean will hate him for as long as he lives, but he’s going to get to live and that’s the whole point, isn’t it?

“I am going to say yes, and you won’t understand why, not at first, but there is a reason for what I am going to do, I promise you that," Sam says, rising up to his full height. He’s facing his brother with everything on his sleeves, and he can’t remember the last time he did that.  
“Sam, why?” Dean’s voice splinters, eyes glistening. He looks over his little brother, not with anger, but with something close to disappointment, something close to pity. Sam is not angry though, not in the slightest.

“Look at yourself, look at the world around you!” Dean cries, waving an arm out to a window.

Sam does not turn to look.

“How could you condemn so many people? Who gave you the fucking right?”

Sam does not have an answer.  
“Dean, you just have to know, I am not doing this to hurt you,” He reaches out, and fully expects Dean to back up, but instead he’s able to lay his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Then he grabs the back of his neck and pulls him into a hug, one that passes in silence and a numb sense of understanding.

“Sammy, we can still try and fix this," Dean whispers.

“No, Dean.” Sam clings onto his brother as he feels his consciousness fading, eyelids fluttering. “But the thing is, we don’t have to.”

Dean’s final resignation is the last thing he sees.

 

-x-

 

Sam lights a cigarette.

They’re the special red ones that Ty called “cowboy killers”, and when he takes a long drag he can see why. He shakes his head and coughs roughly, inhaling the sharp morning air of Arizona. The smoke from the cigarette joins the smoke rising from the bottom of the canyon where the Rabbit lays, it’s flames rising up into the air. The overlook is particularly nice at this time of day, and he stands taking in the red sunrise until his cigarette is almost out.

He buttons what’s left of the Tourist Shirt, fixes his collar, then holds up his arms like he’s Jesus on the cross.

“Hey, Big Guy!” Sam yells out, dropping his cig on the sandstone and crushing it with his foot.

“Yes!”

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr @koedeza, and art by @glowingsamulet on tumblr but @thumbsupsam here on Ao3


End file.
